The heavy door clicked shut, leaving Xavier alone in the sterile silence of his office. He allowed himself a moment, the faint smirk still playing on his lips as he replayed the maid's report in his mind. A shell of her former self. Good. The foundation was laid.
With a flick of his wrist, he turned his attention back to the glowing screen, his fingers resuming their relentless dance across the keyboard. The domestic matter was closed; now, there was business to attend to. The world didn't stop turning because his wife needed to be reminded of her place.
A few minutes later, the door opened without a knock. Xavier didn't need to look up to know who it was. Only one person would dare to enter his office unannounced.
"Afternoon, boss. It's been a minute," a voice said, laced with a youthful, cocky confidence.
Enzo strode in, tailed by two guards who stopped just inside the doorway, standing like silent, imposing statues. At twenty-two and five years younger than Xavier, Enzo was already a force to be reckoned with, his body packed with a dense, muscular build that was smaller than Xavier's but still formidable.
A large, jagged scar ran through his left eyebrow and down his cheek, a permanent reminder of a past encounter that he had, by all accounts, won. He wore a smirk that was as much a part of him as the scar.
Xavier finally forced his gaze from the screen, his eyes cold and appraising. "Enzo," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I take it the situation has been well taken care of."
"Yes, sir," Enzo replied, his tone all business now. "The Cargo bay has been secured and closed off, ready for the shipment tomorrow."
"And the rat?" Xavier asked, pushing his chair back and rising to his full height. He moved with a predatory grace, leaning his broad frame against the front of his massive desk.
"Nothing yet, sir," Enzo said, his stance straightening slightly. "He's not talking. But we did get that he had some information—the shipment is arriving tomorrow, and he was tasked with the job of scouting out the area."
Xavier let out a soft, humorless chuckle, a sound that made the air in the room feel colder. "Then it's a damn good thing we had the shipment go straight to Spain instead of shipping it here and transporting it by truck." He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture of casual power. "Did he look like a cop?"
"Negative," Enzo said without hesitation. "From the looks of it, the way he handled himself... he's an enemy agent."
The smirk vanished from Enzo's face, replaced by a grim seriousness. The room fell silent, the weight of this new information settling heavily in the air. An enemy agent wasn't a simple problem; it was a declaration of war from a rival power.
Xavier remained quiet, his gaze fixed on a point just past Enzo's shoulder. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy and counter-moves, already dissecting this new threat, analyzing the player bold enough to send a spy into his domain. The demolition of his wife was a small project. This... this was the real game. And he had just been made aware of a new player on the board.
The silence in the office was broken by a long, weary sigh from Xavier. The immediate threat of the agent was a problem for his strategic mind, but the day-to-day operations of his empire were what kept it running. He pushed off the desk, his expression hardening as he addressed Enzo once more.
"What about the distribution in Italy?" he asked, his voice all business. "How is that going?"
Enzo straightened up, his demeanor shifting from cocky subordinate to capable lieutenant. "The goods have made it to Palermo, to the warehouse in Sicilia," he reported crisply. "They're still in quality check and damage control, but they should be out and on the market in a week, maybe two."
Xavier gave a short, sharp nod. It was an acknowledgment, not praise. The system was working as it should. A faint, knowing smirk returned to Enzo's face, a sign that his confidence was reasserting itself now that the business talk was over.
"Boss," he began, his tone turning slightly more casual, "excuse me if I'm being nosey, but when do you plan on returning to Palermo?" The question hung in the air, a bold probe into his boss's personal plans.
Xavier's gaze became unreadable, a wall of ice. He didn't like questions about his movements, especially from subordinates, no matter how trusted. He held Enzo's stare for a long moment, the smirk on the younger man's face faltering slightly under the intense scrutiny.
"In a minute," Xavier said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was the vaguest answer possible, a deliberate dismissal that was both an answer and a warning. It was a phrase that meant 'soon,' 'never,' and 'mind your own business,' all at once. The message was clear: the conversation was over.
Enzo, either fearless or foolish, wasn't deterred by Xavier's non-answer. He took a step further into the room, the playful smirk on his face widening into a full-blown challenge. The two guards by the door remained motionless, but their eyes flickered towards Enzo, a silent warning of their own.
"Come on, sir," Enzo said, his tone laced with a casual insubordination that would have gotten a lesser man killed. "The UK is not your scenery. You should be back in Italy or Spain, running operations like a proper mob boss." He leaned against the back of a leather chair, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, watching for a reaction. "People are beginning to talk."
He let that hang in the air for a moment before delivering the final, pointed jab. "Or what," he asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is the new wife keeping you here? Already calling the shots during the honeymoon?" The smirk on his face was provocation, a test to see just how deep Xavier's newfound domesticity went.
The shift in the room's atmosphere was immediate and chilling. Xavier didn't move, didn't even blink, but the air grew heavy, thick with a cold, predatory menace. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and measured, each word a carefully placed stone in a wall of absolute authority.
"First of all, Enzo," he began, his tone not harsh, but flat and devoid of any warmth, which was far more terrifying. "Never question my decisions. I don't give a shit what people say. It's my empire to run. If they have a problem with how I run it, they should've killed me and taken over." The statement was delivered with such calm, matter-of-fact conviction that it felt like an unshakeable law of nature.
He paused, letting the weight of his words press down on Enzo, who's smirk began to falter, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
"Second," Xavier continued, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a dark, clinical finality that wiped the smirk completely off Enzo's face. "This isn't some honeymoon. It's a trial period."
The words hung in the air, cold and sharp as broken glass. "Trial period." It stripped away any hint of romance, personal weakness, or distraction. It redefined Naomi's existence in his world from a wife to an asset, a project being evaluated for its fitness and utility. Enzo stood up straight, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by the stark, sobering reminder of exactly who his boss was and the ruthless, calculating nature of the world he inhabited.
The air in the office was thick with unspoken threats, but Enzo, either lacking the sense for self-preservation or possessing too much confidence, pushed on. "Is she that bad that she needed another month?" he asked, his voice now stripped of its earlier teasing. "I thought you said her family trained her."
Xavier let out a short, sharp, humorless laugh, a sound like grinding glass. "Trained her?" he sneered, beginning to pace slowly behind his desk like a caged tiger. "She's a fucking nuisance, just like her fucking bastard of a father who decided to sell her for a few billion dollars." The contempt in his voice was absolute, a deep-seated loathing that went far beyond a simple marital spat.
"Damn, boss," Enzo muttered, his face paling as he realized he had stumbled into far more treacherous territory than he'd imagined.
"Yeah," Xavier snapped, his pacing stopping as he shot a glare at Enzo. "Lost two fucking maids. Arrange that I get two more hired by the end of the week." He said it as if he were reporting the loss of two cheap pens, a simple, irritating expense.
Enzo nodded immediately, making a mental note. "Is this why you wanted me to bring two guards?" he asked, connecting the dots.
"Yes," Xavier replied, his voice flat. "I want them stationed outside her bedroom door."
"Damn, boss," Enzo said again, this time with genuine concern. "What do you plan to do about her? You can't have a mafia wife acting out of term. People will think less of you."
Xavier's lips twisted into a cruel, determined smile. It was the look of a man who had just solved a complex problem in the most brutal way possible. "Oh, she'll learn to behave," he said, his voice a low, menacing promise. "Even if I have to fucking force it, even if it means I must break her then build her up again my way, I will. BUT SHE WILL BEHAVE... OR ELSE."
As the final, vicious word left his lips, one of the guards standing silently behind Enzo flinched. It was a microscopic movement, a barely perceptible tensing of the muscle in his shoulder, a shift in weight so slight it would have been missed by anyone but a predator scanning for weakness.
It did not go unnoticed by Xavier.
His head snapped towards the guard, his eyes narrowing to slits. The temperature in the already frigid office seemed to plummet. "You," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Step forward."
The guard obeyed instantly, his movements stiff with fear as he left his post and stood before Xavier's desk, his eyes fixed forward, not daring to make eye contact.
"Do you have a problem with how I do things?" Xavier asked, his tone deceptively soft.
"No, sir," the guard said, his voice a strained, near-inaudible croak.
"Good," Xavier said, his gaze lingering on the man for a moment longer, a silent, terrifying reminder of his authority. He then gestured vaguely towards Enzo.
"Go with him to the kitchen. They'll give you her meal. Go to the third floor, to the door with two guards standing outside. Relieve them, give her the food, and remain stationed outside her room."
He was addressing both guards now, his instructions a clear, cold chain of command that left no room for error or interpretation. The guard who had flinched was now on the front line, his every move being watched. It was a test, and a warning.
Without a word, the two guards turned and left the suffocating atmosphere of Xavier's office. They moved with a synchronized purpose, their footsteps echoing softly on the marble floors of the vast, silent mansion. The journey to the kitchen was a trek through a prison, each corridor a testament to immense wealth and oppressive control.
The kitchen, usually a hub of controlled chaos, fell into a tense silence the moment they entered. Staff members froze, their eyes downcast, as the two guards approached the head chef. The chef practically bowed as he handed a simple, silver-covered tray to the guard who had flinched—Marco. On it was a bowl of clear broth, a single piece of bread, and a glass of water. It was sustenance, not a meal; fuel for a prisoner.
Marco took the tray, his face an impassive mask. He and his partner turned and made their way to the grand staircase, ascending to the third floor. With each step, the air grew heavier, more still. The tray felt heavy in Marco's hands, not from its weight, but from the weight of the orders it represented.
At the end of a long hallway, they saw the door. Two guards, identical in their stark suits and stoic expressions, stood posted outside. The exchange was silent, a series of curt nods and subtle gestures. The relieved guards stepped aside, melting back into the shadows of the corridor as Marco and his partner took their positions.
Marco's partner gave a slight jerk of his chin towards the door, indicating it was Marco's task to deliver the food. Taking a deep breath, Marco produced a key and unlocked the heavy door. The click of the mechanism was unnaturally loud in the hushed hallway.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was bathed in the same cold, monochromatic blue of the early afternoon light. His eyes immediately went to the bed. A small lump lay under the pristine white sheets, a figure curled into itself, trying to become invisible. Naomi.